The Illustrator
by Lady Elena Dawson
Summary: Rose and her mother are hired as servants for the wealthy Dawson household. When Jack has his eyes set on Rose, the two begin a secretive love affair that will become the downfall of their lives. The cause of their heartache: Rose is illiterate. Based off of "The Reader" by Bernhard Schlink.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Hey readers! Long time, no writing, huh? I've been extremely busy, and I was going to update my other stories, but I just HAD to start this one! I recently watched "The Reader" and an idea popped into my head that turned it into something Titanic style. It'll be close to the plot, but a little different and not as inappropriate. I don't really like this title, so it might change.**

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**Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic _(1997) or _The Reader _(2008).**

_**The Illustrator**_

_**By Lady Elena Dawson**_

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_**Prologue**_

_Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1948_

The pattering of the rain outside practically made the thoughts bouncing around in my head unbearable to contain. They wanted to burst out so everyone on that train knew of the devouring secret I had kept for years, the reason my heart died a little bit each day. But none of them would understand; none would care, or even notice.

She was more than just a toy to me. She was my inspiration, why I woke up every day with a new passion coursing through my veins. Today I will help her with the garden, I would tell myself. Today I will read to her _The Odyssey. _Though the world turned into turmoil that same year, I would read to her what was going on in Europe, about how the archduke was assassinated along with his wife. When I told her about Russia declaring war on Austria, she began to cry.

"Why are you crying?" I had asked her.

She wiped aside a stray tear on her cheek and focused her puffy eyes on mine. "It's just so sad. That poor man and woman…" She demanded for me to stop reading that day, and I left her in the grassy field, drowning in her thoughts. It was that time I learned something new about her, as I did every moment that I spent with her.

Sensitive. Cautious. Tolerant. Passionate.

She was all those things.

So I would read to her the newspaper before I started with the stories.

It went on like that for a whole year.

But then one day, she disappeared.

And that's when I realized my Rose wasn't coming back.

…

The reason I took the train to the local prison every day was simple. There was someone there who I needed to settle my sins with. She was a kind woman with wise wrinkles etched in her face. Her eyes were the same as hers... I could just imagine her laugh right now.

"_Do you want to hear a joke?"_

_She giggled, her face turning red and her blue eyes sparkling as she shook her head._

"_No? Well, that's too bad, 'cause I'm the greatest comedian around."_

Why she was in there was simple: She was a thief. The police had her record packed with written statements of her daily steal: Apples, bread, a bracelet. Mostly food because she couldn't find work. What I found strange, though, was how she never tried to fight when they caught her, she never tried to deny it. And when they sent her to jail, she always requested the same cell that was strangely always uninhabited.

What she said whenever I visited her was the same thing. "She was here for a couple years, if you remember, Jack," she would tell me. "You would send her all those books." After this statement, she would laugh, and I would smile. "Silly of you to do that for a girl who cannot read."

Oh, but she can. It would take her a while to get through a page, but I would always be there, only a wall apart from where she sat, and read to her. I could faintly remember now what she had been doing: Scanning the jumble of letters known as words and circling the most basic ones. A week later, I would receive a letter from her, something that would be like this:

_Thank you for the books. _

That was it. No name, no reference to our passionate past. It made me wonder if she remembered at all…

…

Rose DeWitt Bukater, Rose Dawson, Rose Calvert.

They were all the same person, the wonderful woman who belonged to me. But most people didn't know that, so I had to keep it a secret—and with my silence I dragged along hers.

Most people didn't know that she was killing me from the inside out every morning and every night.

They didn't know why I kept it a mystery when I could've saved her myself.

A little boy on the train watched me as I stared out the train window. I wanted to tell him to never have regrets, because he was looking at an old man filled with them. But the boy kept staring, and it seemed like he never got my message. I wondered why I didn't open my mouth to ask him why it wasn't obvious.

…

Ruth DeWitt Bukater was like many people during this post-war time. With no money and no work, she would starve, and so her residence became the jail. Hopping off the train into the pouring rain, I scattered across the wet pavement and shook my dripping jacket off as I entered the prison.

"Mr. Dawson, here to see Ruth, I assume?" the policeman at the front desk said, tapping his pencil on a stack of papers.

I smiled. "Yes, as always." I watched him scribble a couple things on the stack of papers before gesturing over his shoulder that I could go in.

_My hand held hers as I traced the letters on the blank page, my eyes wanting to focus on my writing but all I could see was her watching our hands move together as one. _

_The first word appeared: I._

_The second: Love._

_The third: You._

_Her finger traced the phrase. "What does it say?"_

_I couldn't break my gaze from her glowing face, my hand entwining into hers. "I love you."_

The guard led me down the passage and showed me the seat I practically called my own. A couple minutes later, Ruth was pushed in, and she smiled warmly when she saw me. "Jack," she fawned as she put her hand over the glass barrier that separated us.

I grinned back, but half heartily. "Ruth," I greeted her, putting my aging palm over her old one.

"How have you been?"

"I've been better. The case I'm working on right now is a tough one. A husband says his wife cheated on him with another man. At least this 'other man' is present." My expression was unreadable.

Ruth's face faltered, and she nodded weakly. "Ah, yes. We have a lot of those cases going around lately, with the war only ending a couple years ago."

I bit the inside of my cheek, banning my thoughts. "Yeah, the men come back with their wives hiding lots of secrets."

Neither one of us spoke. I glanced at the guard precariously in the corner, wondering if he had any idea what we were _really _talking about. "So, Ruth," I sighed, clapping my hands together in my lap, "have you heard anything?"

Her face paled, and she licked her chapped lips. "Jack, I don't know if you want to hear this…," she whispered, looking down at her hands.

A spark ignited in my head; I was surprised I didn't turn mad with longing. There was nothing but silence in those few moments that I fought with an inner strength I didn't even know I had. My mouth was parched when I finally decided to open it. "Tell me, Ruth. What do you know?"

She swallowed inaudibly, but I could tell because her Adam's apple bobbed like any old woman's. "The police here have taken a liking to me. Strange thing for the law and a thief," she began. Strangely enough, tears filled her eyes—yet another person whose head I wanted to get into. "We're almost like friends. I haven't had any of those in a while." Her wrinkled smile was small and weak. "I told them to look for her, if they had any information for her after she left in 1924. But for a long time they didn't have anything, until now…"

I could barely breathe. I didn't even have to speak as she unfolded a slip of paper and laid it out in front of me. "They traced her here, in California," she said, beckoning me to read it. Her shaky finger pointed at the address. I waited for her to say the words I hoped were true.

"Alone."

…

A man does strange things in moments of torment. It was my raging heart that made my legs, though one with a damaged knee from the war, board another train straight to Santa Monica.

I told myself that I had a long enough journey ahead of me. Why not go back in time and write down the past?

Is it because I tried to push it away?

I was her reader, and she was my reason for living.

Why didn't I tell them what I knew?


	2. The Words: Chapter 1

**_Author's Note_: What I loved most about _The Reader _was the philosophical aspect it gave of how much you really know someone. If you loved a criminal, would it make you guilty as well? Not only that, but Hanna's trial and the aftermath were marvelous and heart-wrenching. However, I hate it when (and some of you may be able to relate to this) I tell someone, "Hey, I like this," and all they say is "What?! You like _that_?! But that's, like, SO inappropriate!" Okay, yeah, it is. But it's not all it's about; the story isn't ONLY about how a boy has an affair with a woman more than twice his age. Take that aspect and apply it to the rest of the story, and you can see that through having that affair, his life was changed and wiser. Spiel number one.**

**Writing this _Titanic _crossover is loads of fun for me; so I hope you enjoy this next chapter! Hopefully this story will make more sense as I write it. I'm trying to mimic Mr. Schlink's writing style a little bit, so if it seems rushed, it's supposed to be! **

**And remember, readers, reviews are like fuel. Without them, how will I know how well I'm doing, or if I should even continue a story at all? It might as well be a silent way of telling me how boring a story is if I don't receive one, and in the worst case, how silly or un-creative it is. This goes for my other stories as well. Spiel number two. **

**Anyway, the message is, I encourage you to review!**

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_**Part One: The Words**_

_**Chapter One**_

_New York, 1913_

Most people I've spoken to don't believe in love at first sight. I didn't either, not for a long time; I still don't. I was only twenty at the time, still freshly out of high school. But lust and attraction can turn into love, so I guess it's fair to say that the first time I laid eyes on her, it was her red hair that blew me away.

It was the darkest shade I had ever seen, framing her heart-shaped face with soft spirals. After that, it was her lips, embellished with a beauty mark in the corner, full and bow-shaped. Eventually my gaze had drifted to her eyes—and after that, I knew that she was different than the many other women who came knocking at my door.

They were light blue pools ringed with a tint of green, surrounded by long, curling lashes. Just from that one instantaneous glance I knew that she would be my secret, the only person in the family who would want to know who she was and what she'd been through, just for the sake of knowing. I felt as though we were staring at each other, just the two of us, for hours. I wanted to reach out and smooth a curl in my hand, to have her lips close to mine…

"Jack!"

I was interrupted out of my dream world by my father's voice. The trio standing in front of me was giving me strange looks, even the beauty whose name I did not know. "Uh," I stuttered, breathless. I took the easier approach and gave the two women my hand. "Jack Dawson."

The older one who I assumed to be the angel's mother nodded her head graciously. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, shaking my hand firmly in hers. "I am Ruth."

I smiled kindly at her. But then, my heart was pounding when I caught _her_ eyes again. Our palms were a few inches apart, the only thing separating us the short distance between. Her fingers were about to touch mine when Father interrupted us for the second time.

"Jack, Ruth and her daughter Rose will be working for us," he stated, making my eyes widen. How could a girl as beautiful and delicate as her be a servant? However, what Father said came to my attention.

Rose. Her name was Rose.

Since the day I met her, there was something that attracted me to Rose. Though she barely had a penny to her name, let alone only a small valise of possessions, I began to watch her. I couldn't not see her; at first, I only watched her from a distance, but then, though it took a while, I began to help her with the chores.

I didn't see much of her after the first day. I caught sight of her by chance walking up the stairs to her room slowly, one foot stepping forward before the other, a book in her hands; at one moment she stopped and flipped the cover over, her fingers scanning the words on the page, her eyebrows crinkled as she mumbled something softly under her breath.

Strangely, I couldn't help myself. I needed to speak up. "What book are you reading?"

She gasped and jumped, dropping the book and hastily picking it up from the carpeted ground; all of this happened in the matter of a couple seconds. A warm blush as red as her hair spread across her face. Her eyes met mine, making my heart flutter, before looking back down at the cover, an unreadable glint in her shaken gaze.

Letting out a nervous laugh, she slapped the spine and shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to dawdle." She swallowed anxiously, the Adam's apple in her throat bobbing as she did so. When I didn't answer right away, she added, "And on the first day too…"

I realized I wasn't responding, too mesmerized by her lean frame on the staircase that it was my turn to become flustered. "Uh, um…" I hesitated, my mouth opening but no words coming out. I decided to wave it off nonchalantly. "It's fine. I was just curious about what book you're reading."

Her face seemed to turn pale. "What book I'm reading?"

"Yes, the one you have in your hands."

She looked down and shrugged, nervously playing around with the apron I had failed to acknowledge. "I found it on your father's shelf in the study," she said apologetically in a quiet tone. "He said I could choose one… Here." And she handed it to me.

It was the first time our hands had met, and something sparked when her small fingers met mine. How could such clean, beautiful hands be roughened by years of work? How could such a tiny creature do so much labor?

My heart longed to delay the action for much longer, but my mind knew better. As quickly as she had handed it to me, I had taken it and pulled away. It was _Pride and Prejudice _by Jane Austen, a common novel picked out by women. I told her what it was.

A lust seemed to replace the other emotions in her eyes, like she was yearning to do something she could not. "I would love it if—" But she stopped herself abruptly, and instead continued with the head of a servant. "It is not my place to say. Good night."

Whenever I look back on that moment, I wish I had called out to her. Told her that whatever she'd ask me, it'd come true. But as soon as those words, which filled her mouth with pain and longing, came out of her throat, she was gone.

Before retiring to bed, I opened her door and found her sleeping form silhouetted by the gas lamp she had precariously forgotten to turn off. Her fingers played around with the sheets, almost in the motion as though she was flipping the pages of a book. Praying my heart would cease from jumping out of my chest, I placed _Pride and Prejudice _on her bedside table before leaning over and snapping the lamp shut.

…

That night, she was in my dreams. The visions I had of her were almost disturbing, and I woke up with a burning desire to look into her eyes again, those deep blue pools hinted with green. It was early morning, not nearly sunrise, not even twenty-four hours that I've known her. She'd barely made this a home yet, and I was already turning into a madman. But I couldn't get the pictures out of my head, so I got up, slicked with sweat from the visions, and began to draw.

I always wanted to be an artist. But my father would never let me be something that very few times made a good deal of money; I was forced into the family business of law. That's what I was studying now in school, the college campus only a few miles away. I was extremely glad that we were on a vacation—and I could see more of Rose before classes started up again.

What I drew left my fingers covered in charcoal, a reminder of the life I could have, but was kicked up in dust the moment I turned eighteen. I had unconsciously drawn her face, the etches being so perfectly detailed and curved in just the right places it was almost as though she could step off the page. She was holding a book, her eyes trained on the words. It was then that I wondered what she looked like when she read, when the only thing I saw was her jumbled expression as she flipped through the book on the stairway.

Would her hands hold the spine? Would she prop it up on her knees when she was sitting down, her legs pulled on the chair with her? These were the odd questions I was asking myself that very early morning as the sun began to rise, and I was shocked out of my thought by the sound of footsteps above my room.

Her room was above mine. I could hear the water running as she ran a bath, a soft humming echoing through the ceiling. She thought she was alone with no one to hear her as she blurted out a melody that had lost its fame a couple years ago:

"Come, Josephine, in my flying machine and it's up she goes, up she goes…"

Maybe she was an angel, sent by God to show me that even the poor could be happy.

"Balance yourself like a bird on a beam; in the air she goes, there she goes! Up, up, a little bit higher! Oh my, the moon is on fire!"

To chase down my dream and become an artist, penniless but free. Her voice, soft and deep, finished the phrase, and I closed my eyes so I could hear her clearly.

"Come, Josephine, in my flying machine, and it's up! All on! Good-bye…"

…

That morning at breakfast, I was told Ruth was serving. I had hoped it would be Rose, but it turned out she was helping out in the kitchen. My heart jumped out of my throat when saw her as she slipped out the door and into the dining room to ask her mother a question, her wet ringlets swooped up off her neck and into an intricate braid. I could picture her knotting her hair, her fingers moving at a quick, even pace as she braided her soft curls.

Her eyes caught mine, and for a moment I thought something was going to happen. But she hastily hurried out of the room again and back into the kitchen, Ruth on her heels.

My sister, Sarah, poked me with her elbow. "Jack?"

I looked up and around the table: my father, my mother, my younger brother and sister. They were all giving me strange looks as though I had some disease that made blemishes pop and appear all over my face.

I couldn't help but look flustered. "I'm sorry, I got very little sleep last night." I was reaching for my fork when the door swung open again, and there was Rose with three ginormous plates in her hands. The third was balanced precariously on her hip, but by the way she strutted into the dining hall it was obvious that she had had years of experience as though she was the balancing act in a big-top circus.

She said something, but I didn't hear her. My little brother Michael snickered, and I could see him stick his foot out to trip Rose. He had been doing that for as long as his feet were able to reach the floor, somehow loving the embarrassment it gave the servants. His immaturity showed that he thought of certain people not as humans, but more like test subjects.

"Michael!" I shouted before I could stop myself, but Rose casually stepped over his outstretched leg. Everyone was staring at me again, including Rose, who had a questioning brow.

Luckily, Mother saw what I had seen and sighed impatiently. As she was lecturing, I forced my humiliated eyes back on to Rose, who gave a small curtsy in my direction before shuffling back into the kitchen.

"I thought Ruth was serving today," Sarah piped up as the mother-and-son conversation on the other end of the table heated.

Father took a bite of the hot meal before responding. I listened intently, though I gave the two little recognition as I played around with my food. "Didn't you hear?" It seemed like I wasn't the only one who wasn't paying attention. "She fell ill. And I'm not surprised, with the long journey they had been through."

The topic piqued my interest; I looked up from my dish. "What long journey?"

He dropped his voice. "The DeWitt Bukaters had traveled all the way from England. Something about, Ruth was kind and honest enough to tell me, a man playing with Rose's heart."

The hopeful feeling in my chest that I would get to know more about the woman who intrigued me faltered like a boulder tumbling off a cliff. A man? Did she get herself wrapped up in a wrong kind of affair?

"John!" Mother hissed, Michael sulking over his plate. "Don't tell such things to the kids! Ruth and her daughter have been through enough as is." I went back to prodding at my food, my mother straightening her back and clearing her throat. "Now, may someone pass the butter please?"

…

For a whole week I tried to summon up the courage to talk to Rose, but something deep inside me always scared me away. It would be as simple as offering to help her weed the garden or dust the frames; but in a way, it was more than that. Never had I been more interested in a woman—and the more I saw her, the more I questioned who she really was.

Though my impression of her was soured by what happened at breakfast, it still didn't keep me from her. Maybe she was the type of person to not put much thought on the past. Maybe all she thought about was the task at hand. Yet, I still didn't know her; I was just assuming that she was something she could or could not be. It was a struggle every day and every night to question her existence, for I still had the dreams and more than twenty sketches of her in my portfolio already.

But what hurt and confused me the most was that she hadn't thanked me for the book.

Poking and prodding around the house waiting for summer to end and watching Rose do her chores from a distance was all I did for a whole two weeks. However, this one particular day was warm and beautiful, and though I wanted to accept my friends' invitations to a swim in the local pool, I decided against it. The sun felt too good to be stuck inside, so I instead went into the garden, my sketchpad handy.

She was there, her gloved hands digging in to my mother's prized hydrangeas. Her lips were pursed in concentration, yet I don't see why; she was so professional at it, she might as well do it easily in her sleep. I wanted to talk to her, swipe away that flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. I longed to hear her speak to me again. But that feeling came again, and my heart was pounding awfully hard in my chest: I wimped out.

I turned around and strolled a couple meters until I came across a cherry tree. Blossoms were sprouting and falling from the branches, making a perfect scene to put on paper.

Though as much as I wanted to draw the tree in the summertime, something else kept popping up entirely on the paper. Summoning up my nerves, I finished it and found myself staring at her face again, before glancing up and seeing her there in the flesh right in front of me.


	3. The Words: Chapter 2

**A/N: I've decided to make this a little fluffier than the reader, so if you like fluffy romance, I hope you'll enjoy the next few chapters! I promise this story will get better, and I'll start switching back and forth from the past to the present now to keep you guys on alert! Review, s'il vous plait?**

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_**Part One: The Words**_

_**Chapter Two**_

I quickly reacted by shoving my sketchpad aside, too insecure about my skill to show anyone—especially a woman—my life's work. My next instinct was, unsurprisingly, to blush.

"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you," she said, stripping the gloves off her hands and shaking the dirt out. I raised an eyebrow; the angel in front of him seemed undaunted by my presence. "I should go back to the garden."

Alarmed, I spoke up too suddenly. "No, wait!" I exclaimed, begging the hairs on my arm to stop prickling at my skin. "I mean," I added before I could be humiliated for the second time in five minutes, "have you read the book I gave you?"

Rose seemed...Well, cautious would be the best way to explain it. She was absolutely the most stubborn, precarious girl I may ever know; full of pride, yes, but not in any way conceited.

"I chose that book," she pointed out, slipping the gloves back onto her hands. They made her once delicate fingers look bulky and masculine, but still cute all in all—if that made any sense. "Thank you for letting me borrow it, but I have not had the time to start it." As she planned to shuffle away, I could feel the real meaning of her words stabbing me in the heart: She was making it clear and plain that she was a servant, and I was her master.

Maybe, however, I could use that to my advantage.

"Well, I hope you will enjoy it. I never read much of Jane Austen—she's too romantic for my taste—but what I've heard is that she's a great writer." Too romantic for my taste? A great writer? Why couldn't I have said "fantastic" instead? Could I think of anything better to say? And that crack in my voice… I had to calm down my sweaty nerves.

What dumbfounded me was Rose's response: Instead of looking bored out of her mind, her eyes lost their unreadable glint and ignited with a sparkling innocence. "Romance?" she uttered. "Like what?" Reminding me of a young girl, she eagerly got down on her knees and kept her large, round pupils on me.

And I liked the attention, especially from Rose. It was almost as though she'd forgotten of her position in my family, leaning far over and holding her face in her gloved palms, elbows resting on her knees that were pulled up to her chest.

I tried my best to look more shocked than excited to have her scooting right next to me in the grass. Her strict, serious expression faltered, and it was replaced by a pure radiance of eagerness. I struggled with the right words. "Well, uh… Romance. Hugging, kissing, giggling, you know?" She slapped me playfully on the arm, and I laughed appropriately. I liked that she was comfortable enough around me to do that—and as a servant, it astounded me!

"No! I meant what her stories are _like_."

"But I told you I haven't read much of Jane Austen," I mumbled.

She raised an eyebrow. "Then tell me what you do know."

"Not enough to tell you what's happening… Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth, who _are_ these people?"

"All right then. I give up." She slapped her knees jokingly and looked me straight in the eye. "When was the last time you picked up a book, Mr. Dawson?"

I thought hard on the question, realizing that life had taken away much of my time. I'd been so wrapped up in my studies and art, I'd barely had enough in my schedule to fit in a good reading session. "I don't know. Two weeks ago, maybe?"

Her eyes widened; if she'd been eating at that moment, she would have choked. She was absolutely stunned. "Two weeks?" she exclaimed, shaking her head in mock sadness. "That book must be lonely." I watched her as she laughed at her own joke, dropping her forehead on her bent knees. It was the liveliest I had seen her in the short time I've known her. "What am I saying? Books don't have feelings!" There was a snort, one of the cutest things I'd heard in a while.

"If it did, it probably would be," I went along with her playfulness, genuine happiness spreading across my face for the first time in my whole life. Every day for the past twenty years had been nothing but boring business and no play; I was holed up in my room most of the time, too afraid to go outside and, sadly, get picked on by the boys at the park across the street. My parents worried but nothing was done; I now have ten portfolios of drawings, filled to the maximum number of papers. It was my only escape from the dreary existence I called a life.

Now here was the most wonderful person who'd ever stepped foot in my life. And she'd only been working here for a week. "Call me Jack," I finally said, giving her my hand. "I don't believe we've had a proper introduction."

She eyed my formal handshake, a small smile playing on her lips. To avoid dirtying my hands, she took off the gardening gloves. "I'm Rose," she said, "but you probably already know that."

Then there we were again, laughing like hyenas at absolutely nothing at all. This was what pure bliss must feel like. I started to ask her about her job, and when she started to give hints of the poor accommodations, my attention was immediately alerted. "Is there something wrong with the servant bedrooms?" I asked her, hoping that the blush from thinking about her room above mine wouldn't flush my cheeks.

"Well," Rose hesitated, turning her eyes away. "The stuffing in the mattress is rather tough, and the faucet…leaky." She plucked at the green strands of grass, flicking them away piece by piece.

"I can fix that," I sputtered out before I could even think it through. How was I going to tell my father to buy new furniture—for the _servants_? He'd probably say that they were lucky enough to even have a bed to sleep in.

Rose cocked her head to the side as though she was studying me. "Really?" she asked, probably waiting for a promise.

"Yes," I replied, her beautiful blue eyes pouring into mine. "I promise."

We sat in complete and utter silence for a few seconds, the first awkward silence in our short acquaintanceship. "I didn't ask." I finally thought of a topic. "When was the last time you read a book?"

The slight breeze blowing back on her hair, I watched her intently as she lifted her head from the gaze on the grass to the trees in front of her, then flicking up to meet my stare. The expression on her face was of absolute torture, a horrific sadness I couldn't begin to describe.

But that gloomy look only lasted a second, and then it was gone. She looked deep in thought and pursed her infallible lips, a foible I would soon learn because of her uneducated past. "I would say… I haven't read a book in years," she finally went with, though she struggled with the sentence. She slipped off her shoes. "I don't remember ever enjoying a book." Her toes lingered in the soft grass, letting the strands peek from between them.

"Never?" I said, more out of keeping the conversation going. I didn't want to pry, but…

She shook her head. "No…" Her answer was melancholic and soft, making me think of a whiny child. But this held more than stubbornness, this held…longing.

I was about to ask her about what she could remember from reading when a distraught yell blew across the lawn. "Rose!" Ruth cried frantically, a look of horror and fury on her face. "What are you doing? We're not here to dillydally! Get back to work!"

Rose looked dumbfounded. "C-coming, Mother," she managed to stutter. She then turned to me. "It was nice talking to you, Jack."

As she walked away, I sighed and watched intently the fight that pursue in front of my eyes—as though Ruth was so furious at her daughter for talking with the family, she didn't feel anything for _yelling _in front of a member.

At first, I didn't hear much of anything, the two trying to talk over each other as they fought. Eventually, they both ceased, and the next words that came out of Ruth's mouth were calm and to-the-point. "These kind people have accepted us into their family. We can't lose that chance, not with what happened back home." She kissed Rose on the forehead, but Rose seemed completely defeated; trembling, almost. "Now come on. The pansies need tending to."

As the two disappeared in the distance, my heart sank. I'd forgotten what my dad had said about why Rose and her mother were here, because of some man toying with Rose's affections. I got up and felt like a pouting child, moaning and wanting to cry. Rose had a history; meanwhile, I barely had someone I considered a girlfriend. How was I to know she wasn't just some ditzy flirt?

A few minutes later, I found myself in her bedroom, a wrench from the shed in my hand; in the other, a tool box. Looking both ways as though someone was going to appear out of nowhere, I stepped inside and lit the gas lamp on the sturdy night table; at least that wasn't something I had to fix. On the other side of the room was a stained water basin without any form of privacy, horribly enough—I prayed my dreams would stay pure tonight—and a clean sink.

Sighing deeply, I put the tools on the ground and turned the faucet on, gasping with surprise as water soaked my new leather shoes. I got down on my knees and inspected the damage—or, in this case, a loose screw. Easily I tightened it and immediately felt some pride; I was finally doing something productive! But as I turned on the sink again, I was met with another spurt of cold water. Groaning, I used tool after tool, metal clanking against pipe. Once I thought I had fixed everything, I tried turning it on again—and this time, success.

Packing up as quickly as I could, I sprinted out of the room with a bright grin on my face. And to think, next time she washes her face or her hands or whatever she might need washed, she would notice the drain was fixed and smile, for it had been me.

…

Who would have thought such a miniscule deed could do so much for your self-esteem?

As I sat at dinner later that evening, I waited patiently to hear if Rose would bring up the sink. But instead the meal went on, and Rose filed in and out of the kitchen. It wasn't until dessert that she finally said something that sent my heart soaring.

"Mr. Dawson, I would like to thank you for whoever fixed the leaky sink in my bedroom," she said curtly, curtsying a little bit after she set down the plate of pie. I held back a grin as my father blinked, dumbfounded.

"What is that?" he muttered confusingly. "I never heard anything about a leaky sink."

Staring into her eyes, I watched as her attention caught my gaze, and I rose my eyebrows ever the slightest to acknowledge my promise kept. Unable to hold back a smile, her lips turned up at the corners. "Well, whoever it was did an excellent job."

My father was speechless. "W-why, thank you." He then coughed awkwardly, his eyebrows furrowed.

The evening continued and I found myself looking at Rose standing politely at the door even more and more. I couldn't contain myself, and casually brought up another of Rose's issues. "Father, the servants have been complaining about the bedding," I stated simply, and I could see the exasperation in my father's eyes; he hated admitting that the servants were whiny. "Would it be all right if we brought in a new batch of hay?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Rose glance up and smile before looking back down at her feet. It was amazing, to see her stand there trying to hide her laughter just as much as I was trying to. After Father reluctantly agreed and everyone filed from the table, retiring to a peaceful night, I stayed and helped Rose clean up.

"You've got a way with words, Monsieur Artiste," she said, nonchalantly taking the stack of plates I'd precariously stacked. "Thank you, even though it wasn't necessary."

I smiled brightly. "You're welcome." Then I realized she'd never seen my artwork before. "How'd you know I was an artist?" Silently, I prayed she had not rummaged through them.

"I'm a maid," she stated simply. "Who else cleans your rooms?" With an ease I'd never seen before, she balanced the plates on her hands. "Plus, I saw you drawing today under the tree. Remember?"

I sighed in relief; she didn't mention the drawings I had done of her, but if she'd seen them, I had no idea. I'd take that as a no, she hadn't. However, my calmed nerves were not to last.

"By the way," she said, stopping in front of the kitchen door before bumping it with your hip. "I love the one of me dusting the frames the best."


	4. The Words: Chapter 3

_**Part One: The Words**_

_**Chapter Three**_

That night, I had the dreams. Pleasant ones of her always laughing and smiling, her eyes twinkling because she was with me, and of her kissing me, sweetly, on the lips. I woke up feeling strange, as though they had all been real, and then I remembered that it was only what I yearned for that wasn't true. And that's when I realized it was all in my head, and that she had never kiss me and probably never will.

Emanating in the air was the mouth-watering scents of bacon and coffee, a sure sign that the sun had surely rose, and that it wasn't just in my imagination either. However, I stopped in front of the dining room door anyway, uncertain what my mind might create. Would she step out of the shadows and wrap her arms around me, love smitten? Or would she just be there to pour our drinks and serve my family our meal?

Whatever the case, she was still there, and that was all that mattered to me right now in the short time I'd known her. Her presence formed a fiery, coursing feeling in my veins that sent me off in a set of wide, unexplainable grins. And I wasn't surprised when I pulled together my confidence and stepped into the room where my family waited for me, and learned that I was in reality after all.

Rose stood off on the side with a pitcher in her hand, the other pushing a loose strand of hair back into her bun. I pretended like I didn't see her eyes light up as I pushed open the door and sat down, and attempted to push aside all thought and feeling as she hovered over me, her warm neck close enough to me as she poured a glass of juice that I could kiss it if I wanted to.

But the breathless moment only lasted ten seconds, and she was back to where she was posted, fiddling with her apron as her mother produced the last plate of grub on our table, curtsying and pulling Rose aside. Not knowing that by doing so, my stomach fell and I no longer felt so hungry.

Was I ever hungry for food since the dreams started? Or was it more of a yen for something nourishment could never offer me, the delightedness that came with loving a woman? At this, I was lost, aimlessly pushing around what was on my plate, appetite spoiled.

"Jack," my mother called for me across the table, a morsel of egg on its way up to her painted lips. "Have you been all right lately? You don't seem the…"

"Listen to your mother, Jack. She's right about your behavior lately," Father piped in before Mother could finish, shoveling in his breakfast.

Mother smiled weakly and put her hands down beside her dish. "Yes, what your father said."

Dumbstruck, I glanced around the table, at my two siblings and parents, all giving me different looks that I couldn't begin to describe. And then I noticed my pounding heart, how Rose had decided to enter the dining room just then, her presence sending life-sucking chills all over my already shaken body. She was in the process of taking away the empty plate of bacon when she noted everyone's piercing stares on me, and she inherently worked more sluggishly at picking it up, her eyes looking straight into mine with worry.

Swallowing hard, I fumbled with my words. "Uh," I started, rubbing the back of my neck anxiously—was there sweat on the nape of my neck? "I haven't been feeling well lately," I lied bluntly before turning my attention to my uneaten plate, swirling everything around. By that point, Rose had exited the room, but I could still make out the hinged door swinging back and forth.

"Oh, dear," my mother exclaimed as her expression worsened.

"God, Jack, if that's all it was, why didn't you stay in bed today?" Father uttered, my sister rolling her eyes as though she knew I was telling lies to cover up how I really felt. And then he joked, "Can't have us all dropping sick, can we?"

"I'm sorry, Father," I apologized, and my heart fluttered when I saw Rose's pretty eye peeking out from the crack of the door. Without a bit of hesitance, I smiled at her—my brother craning his neck to see what I was so fond of—and scooted back my chair, standing up. "I'll just be in my room then."

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Rose was watching with fervent attentiveness as Jack made his way out of the dining hall, and she grinned back even though he couldn't see anything but her eye from the way she was looking. Adrenaline coursing through her veins, she broke her intense gaze to smooth out her apron nervously before ducking back in, only to see that Jack had gone and Mrs. Dawson was asking anxious questions about her son to her inattentive husband.

"Rose!" snapped Ruth. Her throat still sore from a case of strep she'd caught from her immune system still adjusting to the American land, the croaking wheeze caused Rose to jump out of her train of thought. "What are you doing standing at the door?"

Despite her mother's burning stare, Rose was dexterous at the art of playing the part. She leaned back against the corner and calmly replied, "Nothing, Mother. I was just checking to see if the family needed anything more, that's all."

Sighing exhaustingly, Ruth gave up on prying into her daughter's life and whispered, "I know we were never like this, Rose. Don't get me started on how hard it's been to adjust to this life we've never lived, surviving because we have no other experience except for housework. And I know it's been especially hard on you, leaving that man and all—"

Rose's heart plummeted, a bitter and sour taste rising up in her throat like bile. Her mother still didn't know what he'd done to her; she'd had to lie about it just to keep herself alive. His threats, they scarred her, and haunted her in her sleep: The hungry animal of greed who called himself a man. She told her mother that their relationship wasn't going so well, that he broke the courtship, and that he was an obsessive maniac who suddenly wanted her back. Fearing for her daughter's safety, they fled.

"Mr. Dawson has taken ill, Mother," Rose simply said after her mother finished rambling about what had supposedly happened in England. During her mental breakdown of events and blurred ramblings from her mother, she'd created a tray of hot soup and tea to take up to Jack's room. "I think I'll go ask him if he needs anything."

Bumping her hip with the door that led to the servants' stairs of the impeccable Victorian home, Rose clambered up one step at a time, a smile appearing on her face though her head was full of unpleasant memories. Little did Ruth DeWitt Bukater know of the five other women involved.

Yet, little did she know of anything except what she had been told.

…

The sunlight streamed through my windows as I changed into an old shirt and boxers to play the act of an invalid, creeping under my covers and feverishly sketching out Rose's heart-shaped face from that morning's breakfast. Tongue sticking out of the corner of my mouth as I concentrated solely on burning her face into my memory, I couldn't help but grin like a crazy person in an insane asylum as I thought of everything about her.

My pleasurable thoughts, however, were not meant to last long, because there came a knock at my door unexpectedly. Panicking, I flung my sketchpad under my sheets as a woman muttered, "Mr. Dawson?" through the closed door.

After fluffing my pillow frantically and scooting around to get comfortable, I cleared my throat and nonchalantly said, "Yes?"

"A tray for you," the sweet voice said, and for a second I thought I made out the smallest hint of longing in her words. It was Rose.

The breath knocked out of me, I still managed to utter a "come in" even though I felt like I was floating, my head in the clouds.

The door opened uncertainly, and there stood Rose with a well-prepared tray in her hands, blinking her lovely eyes at me. "I'm sorry to intrude, sir, but I heard you were unwell and I, well…" She took a step into the room, her full body in view now; I felt so pathetic lounging in my bed. "I cobbled up this tray."

Smiling, I thanked her. "Just put it over there," I said, pointing to my desk. However, I remembered my stack of drawings that I'd left there and started to panic as she strode on over. "Uh, actually—," I started, but it was no use: She was already paused in front of the mahogany desk.

Her brows became furrowed as she set the tray down, barely paying attention to it, and her eyes skimmed the stack that'd been scattered when I'd been looking for my sketchpad before. I don't think my face could have flushed any more than it was now, a scarlet red that really did make it look like I had a fever.

"Yes, about those," I improvised, rapidly trying to come up with a good reason why I'd drawn so many sketches of her. "I have to say I'm—"

"I can't say I haven't noticed your eyes on me since I moved here," Rose interrupted, breaking her intent gaze to look at me softly. "And I can't deny it's not wrong."

Gulping, I took a shaky breath and responded, "I'm sorry. I just can't help it…" She began shuffling my drawings together in a pile so sincerely and understandably, her eyes seeing each and every one. "You're so beautiful."

That made her freeze like a deer that had heard its prey in the middle of a dark forest, unsure of what to do and definitely scared. In this case, she battled with what was right and what was wrong, and how to say it to my face. Slowly she set down the pile I sweated over for nights, barely getting any sleep just so I could stay with her longer.

When she didn't reply, I scooted out of bed and cautiously made my way over to her, tenderly placing a finger to her cheek so I could tilt it up to me. "Let me tell you a secret," I whispered, her eyes flickering over every boyish feature on my grown face. "I'm not actually sick."

"And I knew that you weren't. I just wanted an excuse to see you," she confessed in a puff of air, her heart hammering inside her chest; I could feel her apprehension as I inched closer to her face, the vein in her neck pounding visibly.

"I knew that, too." I finished our tension-filled small talk by closing the small distance between us, consuming her lips with mine. Instantly passion overcame me, and her reluctance to return my kiss quickly dissipated and was replaced by a strong urge to deepen it with a beating sense of pleasure.

Eventually we had to break our embrace for air, and I stared into Rose's lustful eyes, her hand flying to her lips as though she was stunned by what had happened. "Sir, I didn't mean to—"

"Enough of this politeness. It's rude to me," I interrupted her guilty cover-up of a phrase; after all, I was the one to take the chance first. "Call me Jack."

There was a slight twinkle in her eyes as one corner of her mouth turned up in a twitchy grin, and she let out a weak laugh. For a moment her eyes left mine, but when she looked back there was a new kind of confidence in them. "Jack," she muttered, then giggled.

Familiar with the aching in my heart, I knew it was the sweet sort of laugh I loved so much for so long—and lusted for so badly. Eyebrows furrowing in mock confusion, I said her name, purposefully adding a slight question to it. "Rose?"

She gave me a peck on the lips, and it sent my body aflame. When she pulled away, she kept her nose close to mine, so all I could really see were her beautiful eyes and fluttering lashes. "Yes?"

So innocent, yet so fiery. If I had to choose two words to describe Rose, that's what they would be, for she was so playful and fun, but also witty and courageous. Nothing could bring her down, except for one thing—something I wouldn't know until much later.

Licking my recently kissed lips, I mumbled, face flushing, "I don't know what to say."

Sadly, Rose pulled away and smoothed out her apron like she always did, even though she always looked fine. "It's all right. I have to go anyway." Striding across the room she headed towards the door, and I knew that she wanted me to say something.

"Can I see you later, then?" I blurted out without much thought, but it must have been fine because she turned her head around to smile at me.

"Of course, Monsieur Big Artiste," she replied with a wink that made the color drain from my heating face. Then, with disapproved tsk: "Hm. I can't see Monsieur Monet blushing."

"Monsieur Monet obviously didn't have a pretty girl to fall in love with," I said, again, without much of anything processing in my head before it came out of my mouth, and immediately I knew I said too much.

Rose seemed to frown slightly, and she cocked her head as though she was curious of me, like I was some exotic animal. "My sister's coming to visit tonight. If I were you, I wouldn't pay much attention to her. She's mute anyway." And she put her hand on the door to leave, though I was not fully satisfied.

"Would you be jealous if I did?" I asked, finally realizing why I shouldn't think before I spoke: everything felt like a huge embarrassment.

A mysterious grin printed on her face, Rose clicked open the bedroom door and stepped out, eyes still and only on me. "I wouldn't risk it if I were you." And with that, she was gone.


	5. The Words: Chapter 4

_**Part One: The Words**_

_**Chapter Four**_

_Santa Monica, California, 1948_

The train came to a smooth stop, barely jerking as its wheels screeched on the metal tracks. As soon as the chattering of people filing out thinned into a drone, I stood up from the plush seat and stared out the reflective windows, studying the crowd of people mingling in the station. Over in the distance a child excitedly jumped into a woman's arms, presumably his mother's. Shortly behind the little boy a man followed, the three of them holding each other close as they strolled away as a family.

My focus drifted to my stiff reflection in the window, a man full of regret. I had scattered out of Philadelphia so fast, I had barely had any time to stop by at the place that was once my home. Dilapidated and worn-down, the Dawson household was no longer a place of grandeur back in Pennsylvania. Instead, it was an echoing hall plastered with whispered secrets, bitter fights, and the beginning of a star-crossed affair.

The door had creaked as I had pushed it open, hardly having to put that much effort into it, the hinges were so worn. Some dead leaves that had blown in from a broken window above the foyer had swirled as the wind brushed in through the front door, and my feet had dragged through them.

But even in its poor state, I could still recognize the house by the elegantly carved banister, now covered in a thick layer of dust, and the crystal chandelier drooping from the ceiling, its shimmery ornaments still held with pride.

Taking the first step up the stairs, an ominous _creak _had danced through the hollow room. Immediately a memory had flooded me, always about her, and I had allowed myself to close my eyes and picture it:

"_Come back here!" I yelled as she sprinted away from my dripping body, splashed by her evasive existence. Her red curls escaping from her proper bun bounced on her back as she ran into the house, only looking back when she was two steps up the staircase._

_Puffing, I entered through the wide-open door and stared at her face, glowing with happiness and laughter. "You won't get away with this!" I joked some more, once again chasing after her._

_With a high-pitched giggle, she turned around and bolted up the stairs, her bare feet skimming over the smooth carpet, and I stopped to smile to myself in a corridor as she rounded the corner and disappeared._

Eyes fluttering open, I had looked at the staircase then, dusty and rigid. And then I had thought it was strange that I was able to imagine her squeals so clearly, her feet pounding on the stairs as she ran, almost as though she was there with me and we were young again.

"Excuse me, sir?"

I was snapped out of my daze by a man in uniform, confused at my everlasting presence. "I apologize, but you will have to get off. This is the last stop of the day."

At first I only stared at the man in utter blankness, not a single thought crossing my mind. But then I glanced away and imagined that family walking away together, and I knew that it was time to find her and set things right—so we could be a family again.

…

_Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1913_

And I did see her later that day, pulling the weeds in the garden. As much as I hated to see her work so hard and get hardly anything in return, I adored the look of determination on her face as she grabbed onto a stubborn plant and tugged it out with much precision, setting it aside in a pile of defeated grasses.

For whatever reason I found myself being drawn to her and the first words that came to my mind shot out of my mouth. "That's some workload."

Glancing up from her duties, she furrowed her brows and stared up at me, biting her bottom lip as though that would protect her from the pulsing sun. "Yes, there is quite a lot of gardening to be done." With that, she turned back to the rich dirt overflowing with lavish daisies.

The way she said it, though, made my heart sink down into my stomach. It was like I was conversing with a completely different person, someone lacking emotion, love, and passion. But I knew she mustered all of those things; the kiss earlier that day had revealed it all.

Setting my sketchpad aside, I slumped down to my knees, ignoring the bit of hair that fell into my face as I did so. "Mind if I help?"

Stubbornly she stopped again and turned around, studying my beaming features, slightly confused about why I wanted to help her in the first place. "No," she responded cautiously, shimmying aside to give me some room. "Let me show you what to do first."

Giving a precise explanation, she demonstrated how to pull out a stubborn weed, taking ahold of it as though one was wrangling a person's neck with their bare hands. With a forceful yank it burst out of the ground, sending an unanticipated spray of mulch and dirt everywhere—which, after a second of speechlessness, sent me and Rose into a shocked flurry of giggles, her face wrinkling up as she wiped at her wet eyes.

But that only smeared a small patch of dirt on her cheek, making her appear cuter and more innocent than before. Gone was uptight and stringent Rose.

I stared at her with a boyish grin on my face, and by the way I was laughing she could tell it was at her. "What?" she asked with a slight amount of fury. "What is it?"

"Here," I said, once I dabbed at my own watery eyes now. "Let me help." Licking my calloused thumb, I inched forward on my knees and took her delicately shaped face in my hand, staring at her beauty for longer than necessary.

Her cheek was smooth and warm as my finger grazed it, removing the streak of grime. Blushing, she realized what had made me laugh so hard. "Oh," she murmured. "How embarrassing."

"There," I responded to her humiliated comment. "It's gone now." Smiling, she thanked me quietly and returned to the splattered garden, me following in pursuit.

"I bring you," I narrated as I crinkled a weed in my gloveless hands, a grin in my voice once I saw Rose watching in intent curiosity at my unexpected speech, "the first weed John William Dawson has ever pulled." Tugging back, it made no effort to move with me—and I fell back in the trimmed grass.

And there was that beautiful ringing sound, just as I had hoped. Sliding her gloves off her rather soft hands, Rose sat over me, a pitiful smile played on her lips. "Are you all right?" she asked, my blue eyes noting how the sun bounced off her red hair.

The coy grin that had been plastered on my face since I saw her in the garden slowly faltered as I intensely studied her whole body, impossibly glowing with the light of the sun. To hide my obvious adoration, I closed my eyes and went limp, wondering how my plot would play out.

"Jack?" came Rose's voice through the darkness of my shut eyes. At first she said it like it was a joke, but when I didn't stir, her hand grabbed my shoulder and shook it. "Jack?" Concern and fear were etched in her tone.

Realizing it was now or never, I jerked up and wrapped my arms around her waist, bring her down with me as we rolled around in the grass, her stunned expression having no time to react or scream.

Down the small hill leading down to the lake we went, one after the other, the slight bumps in the ground knocking us in the back or shoulders as we bounced together as one. When we came to a halt, she was fearfully clutching to me, her head in the crook of my neck and legs wrapped around my waist.

The exhilaration of tumbling through the grass with Rose made me tremble, and I noticed she was shaking, too. Being the first to laugh through the intimate moment, Rose untangled herself from me and pushed away, shoving me in the chest when I tried to get up with her; I fell back again and scraped my elbows on the ground.

"Jack, you scared me!" she cried in a rage, fuming. Her fury didn't stop the chortle in my throat, though, and she had a difficult time keeping her guard up as the amusement of the situation overwhelmed her. Soon, we were both laughing, the birds singing in the trees while we did so, along with the sun beaming off the lake.

"We should do that again!" I exclaimed right when we stopped, and reluctantly Rose nodded eagerly.

"I would love that," she replied, not a single hint of anger in her words.

I got up to my feet and helped her up, sparks igniting when our skin touched, before brushing the bits of dirt and grass off my trousers. "Last one down has to pull out the rest of the weeds!" I challenged rapidly, sprinting off in the distance before she could respond.

By the time I reached the top, Rose was still clambering up with a warm smile on her glistening face, and I whooped loudly before crouching down and pushing myself down through the sloping field.

As I came to a halt, I faced the blue sky and the cozy sun, a tremor in my chest telling me that my heart was no longer the same anymore. But my moment of pure bliss was broken when Rose's squealing body came pummeling into mine, grasping on to me and causing us to tumble a couple of more times before stopping.

Rose was pinned on top of me as we laughed off our forming bruises, and the sun gave her the same effect as before with the soft glow. I recognized at that very second the utter longing I had to kiss her, but she shocked me with her wit when she read my thoughts before I could even comprehend them, and her lips crashed onto mine.

But it was over as soon as it had started—a slight, passionate peck. Rose pulled away in surprise, her fingers touching her dainty mouth like she was burned. Tugging myself out from under her, I twisted into a sitting position and pulled her into my lap, loving the way her body fit perfectly in my arms.

For a while we only stared into each other's eyes, oblivious to the world around us. Eventually I couldn't contain my desire anymore, and I leaned in and kissed her again, soft and a little longer than before.

When I pulled away, she fluttered her eyes open like she was in a daze. I could feel her heart pounding furiously in her chest as my hand brushed over her neck, her own hand covering my cheek. She bit her lip and grazed her finger against my skin.

"Kiss me again?" she asked earnestly, and I entwined my hands in her curls, our bodies falling onto the grass as one.

…

After unraveling ourselves out in the fields by the lake, we headed inside to clean ourselves of the grass stains and specks of dirt—plus my bloodied elbows—clinging to our hair and clothes. On the way up the stairs we jumped into a conversation about literature, and I spoke of my love for it along with my passion for art as she questioned me about every topic known to man: cubism, poetry, love, and more.

Scrambling into her bedroom, she shut the door as she inquired me, a bit of curiosity in her light tone, "Would our love story make a great novel, Jack?"

For the first time, I could see her admiration present in her glistening eyes, even by the way she clutched her hands behind her back as she sprawled against the door. "I think it would be a very interesting read," I said honestly, shrugging my shoulders.

She dashed across the room and pulled the pins out of her hair, looking at me through a small mirror. "Because I think," she huffed as she removed the last one and started running a brush through her curls, "that it would be the greatest love story ever told."

_I wouldn't say that, _I thought to myself as I watched Rose turn away from the mirror and watch me with the goofiest grin while moving the brush with ease. As much as I wanted to believe that myself, I couldn't deny that we were practically strangers. I needed more time before I could answer such a heavy question.

"So, Rose," I casually said to change the subject, and a small look of hurt flashed across her eyes. "What's _your_ favorite novel?"

It was as though all the heat had been sucked out of the room, leaving it cold and dreary to stand in. All remnants of our previous conversation—maybe even our lovely afternoon—went missing, and Rose's face was pale as a sheet. "About that, Jack… I-I—"

But she was cut off by the sound of the doorbell, and she hastily shoved a few pins into her hair to look nice—well, as nice as she could be covered in some dirt and grass stains—before brushing me aside and through the corridors, down the stairs. Wounded, I stayed behind to collect my confused, racing thoughts, then hesitantly followed her to the foyer.

There, standing in the doorway, was a woman with strawberry blonde hair and fern green eyes. She bore such a resemblance to Ruth, that I knew that she was Rose's sister, whose name I did not know. My mother along with Ruth smiled warmly, welcoming her to our residence. But when they saw me, their beaming expressions collapsed.

"Jack," my mother groaned, studying me from head to toe at my tattered body. "You too?"

I nodded and forced a grin on my lips, shoving my hands into my pockets. My eyes skimmed over Rose, who kept her head down ashamedly as her curls blew around a bit by the breeze passing through the open door.

"Oh, never mind," my mother said with a nervous laugh, shrugging it off and turning her attention back to the guest. As soon as her dark green eyes fell on me, the corners of her mouth curled up into a sickly sweet smile, and I glanced at Rose again, only to see her ears turning a bright pink.

"Jack," my mother said as she placed her hand on the woman's shoulder. "This is Lydia, Ruth's daughter."

* * *

**Reviews, anyone?**


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